Mushroom skin, flaking, visions of Death
To Grandmother's house we go
Fetch, little doggies, fetch the Frankie visions
Grandmother's brew is drunk and so is seen between the wreckage
a mysterious cure
Driven by terror-hope we plunge into the thicket
and harvest the hope,
but the true harvest is still to come.
She is here, trapping us, driving us on. She comes.
Run! Run! Fucking run for your minds!